ꢀe Interdisciplinary Journal of Popular Culture and Pedagogy
Bad Girls: Agency, Revenge, and Redemption in Contemporary Drama
Courtney Watson, Ph.D.
Radford University Roanoke, Virginia, United States
ABSTRACT
Cultural movements including #TimesUp and #MeToo have contributed momentum to the demand for and development of smart, justified female criminal characters in contemporary television drama. ese women are representations of shiſting power dynamics, and they possess agency as they channel their desires and fury into success, redemption, and revenge. Building on works including Gillian Flynn’s Gone Girl and Netflix’s
Orange is the New Black, dramas produced since 2016—including e Handmaid’s Tale, Ozark, and Killing
Eve—have featured the rise of women who use rule-breaking, rebellion, and crime to enact positive change. Keywords: #TimesUp, #MeToo, crime, television, drama, power, Margaret Atwood, revenge, Gone Girl,
Orange is the New Black, e Handmaid’s Tale, Ozark, Killing Eve
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From the recent popularity of the anti-heroine in novels and films like Gone Girl to the treatment of complicit women and crime-as-rebellion in Hulu’s adaptation of e Handmaid’s Tale to the cultural watershed moments of the #TimesUp and #MeToo movements, there has been a groundswell of support for women seeking justice both within and outside the law. Behavior that once may have been dismissed as madness or instability—Beyoncé laughing wildly while swinging a baseball bat in her revenge-fantasy music video “Hold Up” in the wake of Jay-Z’s indiscretions comes to mind—can be examined with new understanding. Women are angry, and that anger is being mirrored and justified in popular culture. As British writer Sophie Heawood noted in 2014, “e older I get, the more I see how women are described as having gone mad, when what they’ve actually become is knowledgeable and powerful and fucking furious (Heawood).” Hold up, indeed. Contemporary narratives have not only made room for furious women in their stories, they’ve begun to celebrate them as empowered and justified agents for change. ere has been an evolution in the trope of the bad girl; while she was once merely a jealous, petty, and vindictive trouble-maker—Nellie Olsen at any age— today’s bad girl is a woman with purpose who tends to be decidedly darker than her beloved male criminal counterpart: she’s smart, she’s ruthless, and she’s had it with laws and oppressive social conventions. Most importantly, she refuses to be quiet about it.
e concept of the bad girl has evolved in the wake of recent cultural and political events: her genesis, her indiscretions, how she is punished—because women who break the rules are always punished, one way or another—and her fight for agency and redemption. An exploration of criminal (or, in some cases, arbitrarily criminalized) behavior perpetrated by women in e Handmaid’s Tale, Ozark, and Killing Eve offers compelling insight into shiſting cultural desires and expectations. In a recent cultural landscape wherein Walter White was revered while his long-suffering wife was so vilified that the actress portraying her received death threats (Gunn), it is now worthwhile to examine the cultural influence of recent political movements and their continued impact on the characterization of criminal women in contemporary drama.
GONE GIRL
While there are many notable productions worthy of discussion, it is the success of Gillian Flynn’s bestselling 2012 novel Gone Girl, which was rapidly adapted into a 2014 film starring Rosamund Pike and Ben Affleck, that marked a cultural flashpoint for the treatment of women’s anger and criminal behavior in contemporary drama. e thriller centers around characters Nick and Amy Dunne—both abysmal—in the wake of Amy’s disappearance, which plays out in the bright glare of the 24-hour news cycle as Nick is tried in the court of public opinion. However, what at first appears to be a case of an unfaithful husband killing his inconvenient wife takes a sudden turn when it is revealed to Nick—and the reader—that Amy staged her own kidnapping as revenge for Nick’s indiscretions and other failures. While the plot is unpredictable, Amy’s anger is cold and constant; Amy is no heroine, but her justified fury strikes a chord with the audience.
Gone Girl gained traction because it tapped into the outrage that would soon be expressed by the
#TimesUp and #metoo movements. While the novel Gone Girl and its subsequent film adaptation received acclaim, there was one specific passage in the book that well-captures the ideas and undercurrent of anger that have defined the era of #metoo and #TimesUp. In a passage that went viral and spawned dozens of think pieces, Flynn captured the essence of a problematic, real-life female archetype that is diametrically opposed to women’s agency, shoring up the very patriarchy that oppresses her. Flynn calls her the Cool Girl:
Men always say that as the defining compliment, don’t they? She’s a cool girl. Being the Cool Girl means I am a hot, brilliant, funny woman who adores football, poker, dirty jokes, and burping, who plays video games, drinks cheap beer, loves threesomes and anal sex, and jams hot dogs and hamburgers into her mouth like she’s hosting the
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world’s biggest culinary gang bang while somehow maintaining a size 2, because Cool Girls are above all hot. Hot and understanding. Cool Girls never get angry; they only smile in a chagrined, loving manner and let their men do whatever they want. Go ahead, shit on me, I don’t mind, I’m the Cool Girl. (Flynn 210)
While Flynn directs no shortage of vitriol at men throughout her novel, she places blame for the illusion of the Cool Girl on women: “Men actually think this girl exists. Maybe they’re fooled because so many women are willing to pretend to be this girl…And the Cool Girls are even more pathetic: ey’re not even pretending to be the woman they want to be, they’re pretending to be the woman a man wants them to be” (Flynn 210). Flynn identifies these women, the wannabe Cool Girls, as being complicit in the perpetuation of what is ultimately a dangerously disempowering persona and she takes them to task for their disillusionment.
As she is presented by Flynn, the Cool Girl is an unfortunate trend, a cultural curiosity whose harm is largely localized to herself. She is annoying to those who know that her performative coolness is just that, a show. She does not seem to be dangerous until her actions are examined on a larger scale and the misogyny inherent to her existence becomes apparent: “ [She] likes every fucking thing he likes and doesn’t ever complain. (How do you know you’re not a Cool Girl? Because he says things like: ‘I like strong women.’ If he says that to you, he will at some point fuck someone else. Because ‘I like strong women’ is code for ‘I hate strong women’)” (Flynn 210). When examined beyond the individual and as a collective, the approval the Cool Girl seeks transforms into a desire with troubling implications, particularly when she becomes a voting bloc. When the Cool Girl evolves into the complicit woman, she actively reinforces power structures that harm and disenfranchise women, beginning in the voting booth.
e concept of complicity has taken on fresh urgency in the era of the Trump administration, which is itself closely associated with women described as being complicit. When discussing complicity, the 53% of white women who voted for Donald Trump in the 2016 election (CNN) is a frequently-cited figure— though it is lower than the percentage of white women who supported Republican candidates in previous elections (Simmons). Women employed in Trump’s administration are also oſten described as being complicit in the administration’s efforts to shore up a distinctly white patriarchy at the expense of women, minoritized communities , and the socioeconomically marginalized and disenfranchised. e association between women either affiliated with or who support the Trump administration has especially been emphasized in popular culture, with television shows like Saturday Night Live frequently lampooning public figures including Kellyanne Conway, Sarah Huckabee Sanders, and, perhaps most memorably, Ivanka Trump. Trump was parodied by actress Scarlett Johannson in a perfume ad sketch for a fictional fragrance called Complicit, “for the woman who could stop all of this…but won’t” (Johannson). e sketch went viral, amassing nearly ten million views on YouTube alone.
THE HANDMAID’S TALE
Complicity, and the role that women play in protecting the social, cultural, and political institutions that put them at a disadvantage, has become a much more frequent topic of discussion since 2016. While it has been particularly reflected in television in both comedy and drama, it is in dramatic television where the vestiges of the Cool Girl are visible in the more dangerous and vulnerable complicit woman. In shows like Hulu’s e Handmaid’s Tale—an adaptation of Margaret Atwood’s 1985 novel that imagines the total disempowerment of women with startling swiſtness and alacrity aſter a revolution carried out by religious zealots—it is made clear how essential complicit women are to the continuity of Gilead’s oppressive regime. e social structure of women in Gilead is caste-like, and while some women are treated much, much more violently than others, all are oppressed and wholly disempowered.
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e idea that no woman is safe is emphasized in the second season finale when Serena-Joy Waterford, the wife of Commander Frederick Waterford and herself an architect of Gilead, is severely punished with the amputation of a finger aſter arguing that women should be taught to read and then reading aloud a passage from the Bible that supports her beliefs (e Word). It is a particularly dark moment in the series that serves to put cracks in Serena Joy’s faith in Gilead’s harsh theocratic patriarchy, if not to break the spell entirely. Serena Joy’s punishment is a shocking, violent scene that eventually leads to her gaining some clarity about how even the most privileged women in Gilead—and she is at the top of this social strata—are completely powerless under the system they are essential to upholding. Serena Joy’s fear of her husband and the monster of Gilead she helped build and support resonate most deeply with the audience in her moving final scene of the episode when she surrenders her daughter (who is June’s biological daughter) to June. With the aid of others who are rebelling against Gilead, June seizes her opportunity to escape with the child, and Serena Joy is the only one who can stop her. In an uncharacteristic moment of clarity, Serena Joy instead helps June and the child escape because she realizes that her daughter will never be safe in Gilead (e Word).
While Serena Joy’s prospects are grim aſter her punishment, they are still far better than nearly every other woman in Gilead’s society, where women at every level suffer, though in different ways. e most privileged women are married to powerful men who hold quasi-military positions in Gilead’s government and who are stylized with titles like “Commander.” ese wives are easily identified by their teal, 1950s style, tea-length dresses, and high-heeled pumps, evoking a bygone. e color of their wardrobe is rich but placid, and their pearl necklaces are luminous but understated. e wives are women designed to blend into the background of their plush, gilded surroundings.
Beyond the wives of men like Commander Waterford, the rest of the women in society exist only to serveGilead.elessfortunatewomenofGileadarealsocolor-codedforrapididentification.Fromthecomplicit aunts who enforce the training of handmaids, to the workers and slaves who shovel radioactive waste at sites out west, secondary women are clothed in drab, shapeless attire like refuse to be discarded. e handmaids, famously, don startling scarlet cloaks; the color serves to represent these women as the child-bearing lifeblood of Gilead as well as branding them as fallen, criminalized women—adulterers, lesbians, protestors—who are atoning for their past sins by serving the nation. eir wardrobe serves as a re-imagined scarlet letter, one that cannot be concealed. In a notable subversion of the law, the cloak also comes to symbolize the impending revolution: “ey should never have given us uniforms if they didn’t want us to be an army” (e Handmaid’s Tale). ere is a marked narrative shiſt in the story when the symbol of the handmaids’ oppression is co-opted to represent their resistance. Significantly, this symbol has also been adopted as a visual form of protest in
- the United States.
- Perhaps more than any other show on television, e Handmaid’s Tale is viewed
as an artistic reaction to the political and cultural events that have taken place in the United States since 2016. Writer Celia Wren described the show as a galvanizing touchstone, saying “the series has struck a chord with Americans chafing at the policies and personality of President Trump, whom many consider an exemplar of misogynistic male privilege. Real-life protestors have recently donned red-and-white garb to demonstrate against what they see as infringements on women’s rights around the country (Wren 30 Commonweal).” As a show deeply rooted in themes of sin, transgression, and rebellion, images from e Handmaid’s Tale have become powerful and widely recognized symbols of protest.
Margaret Atwood herself has been vocal about similarities she sees between e Handmaid’s Tale and the current political climate. In a June 2017 Boston Review interview with Junot Diaz--who would be accused of verbal and sexual abuse during the #TimesUp movement less than a year later (Alter)--Atwood discussed correlations she saw between the novel and reality: “It’s not only Trump. e general climate in some parts of the United States is certainly heading in a Handmaid’s Tale direction. And that is why the recent sit-ins in the state legislatures were so immediately understandable, with groups of women in Handmaid costumes turning
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up...while an all-male batch of lawmakers were passing laws on women’s health issues” (Atwood 149). ese protests serve as a startling visual representation of women’s anger and their willingness to object to unjust laws and lawmakers. at these protestors don the attire of handmaids and risk arrest and criminal charges to express their outrage speaks volumes about the cultural impact of the show.
Atwood and Diaz go on to discuss how every human rights atrocity committed in e Handmaid’s
Tale was rooted in history and had happened in the past, and, in some cases like stoning, is still legal in multiple countries. is idea is discussed by Atwood at greater length with Olivia Aylmer in an April 2018 Vanity Fair interview, wherein Atwood describes the second season of e Handmaid’s Tale as ‘a call to action’ (Aylmer). Aylmer compares the show to moments in history characterized by deep oppression, saying: “e story was always designed to depict forms of injustice that have really happened, and as a form of witness literature--a genre with deep, resonant historical roots” (Aylmer). e Nazis and Stalin are both referenced for context, with Atwood citing poet Anna Akhmatova as a particular inspiration (Aylmer). Over the course of both interviews, however, Atwood finds the narrative of oppression inextricably linked to political regimes.
Like Wren and Atwood, Katrina Spencer also attributed the hype surrounding the show, at least in part, to emotional fallout sparked by the 2016 election results. According to Spencer, the timing of the first season of the show--amidst a confluence of galvanizing political events--also contributed to the intense interest it sparked in critics and viewers alike:
Remember: when the first episodes were released, Donald Trump had just taken office as president, having made some tasteless and misogynistic comments...the #MeToo movement had yet to garner its national following; the wildly popular Netflix series Orange is the New Black, with its largely female cast, had become a household name; and, of course, one of the most qualified women in history, former Secretary of State Hillary Rodham Clinton, had lost the election that would have allowed her to steer the most powerful country on the planet. e world, in a word, was abuzz with interest in women being centered in narratives and treated as human beings deserving of respect, recognition, and rights. (Spencer 1)
It is interesting that Spencer mentions Orange is the New Black as a precursor to the success and recognition of e Handmaid’s Tale as a vital piece of cultural commentary, because, in many ways, it was the success of Orange is the New Black that made it viable for streaming services to greenlight the production of gritty dramas that focused on women. e show is remarkable for the ways in which it has developed stories of incarcerated women who have been marginalized by society, and for the agency the characters are given. e show is particularly meaningful for the way it thoughtfully evaluates criminality, a theme that is explored at
length in e Handmaid’s Tale.
Criminalization is a strong undercurrent throughout e Handmaid’s Tale thus far. In flashback scenes, viewers see the erosion of women’s rights--a change that is gradual at first, and then soberingly rapid-- until the point that being merely a woman is practically a criminal act. In the third episode of the first season of the show, Offred reflects on the erosion of women’s rights, lamenting that she didn’t realize what was happening until it was too late: “Now I’m awake to the world. I was asleep before. at’s how we let it happen. When they slaughtered Congress, we didn’t wake up. When they blamed terrorists and suspended the Constitution, we didn’t wake up then either. ey said it would be temporary. Nothing changes instantaneously. In a gradually heating bathtub, you’d be boiled to death before you knew it” (e Handmaid’s Tale). Flashback scenes show specific moments of major change in the nation that would become Gilead.
As Spencer observes, “the women of reproductive age are no longer seen as people but merely beings that harbor viable wombs...these women are broadly stripped of their autonomy and agency so they can serve
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as fertile, governmentally monitored units (Spencer 1).” Within Gilead, women are stripped of all their rights, from owning property and having jobs and bank accounts to reproductive freedom and bodily autonomy. Any form of resistance is recognized by the state as being a criminal act and the women and men who defy Gilead’s laws are punished severely in ways that include: isolation, enucleation, genital mutilation, dismemberment, and public execution by hanging, drowning, and firing squad. e corpses of the executed are leſt to rot in the open air, where they serve as a stark reminder of the consequences of disobedience. Offred and the other handmaids engage in criminal behavior with both small rebellions and major transgressions throughout the series; the women--and the audience--find freedom in these criminal acts. ough the punishments are severe, these acts of defiance against Gilead are also life-sustaining.
Atwood’s description of Season Two of e Handmaid’s Tale as a ‘call to action’ (Aylmer) is well-aligned with the character arc of protagonist June, played with simmering fury by Elisabeth Moss. While the first season of the show explored the many brutal ways Offred--the patriarchal name assigned to June as the property of Commander Fred Waterford—was victimized by Gilead, Season Two focuses on how June--and many other women and some men—rebel against the oppressive regime. e movement in June’s character arc is quite clear as she reclaims more and more of her identity through acts of rebellion. For example, the pilot episode of the series is titled “Offred,” which theorist Judith Butler may describe as demonstrable subordination (Butler 53), an idea that is explored in her seminal work Gender Trouble. Within the confines of Gilead, June is so stripped of her agency that she can only be identified in relation to the man who owns her. However, the first episode of the second season is titled “June,” hinting at the idea that June is wresting back her autonomy.
is change is fully realized by the final episode of the season, entitled “e Word.” e episode opens with June folding the clothes of recently-executed Eden--a 15-year-old girl forced into marriage and then convicted of adultery—and reciting a litany of titles held by women: “Wife. Handmaid. Martha. Mother. Daughter. Girlfriend. Queen. Bitch. Criminal. Sinner. Heretic. Prisoner” (e Handmaid’s Tale). e latter part of the list describes women who have transgressed against Gilead, and it sets the tone for the rest of the episode. Transgression could very well be the theme of the episode; at one point, June laughs in the Commander’s face—an action that is perhaps the most transgressive of them all. is scene displays what Atwood describes as the quintessential difference between men and women: “Men are afraid that women will laugh at them. Women are afraid that men will kill them” (Atwood). is idea and the concept of women’s laughter as a means of subversion is explored in great depth by Kathleen Rowe, who describes laughter as “…a powerful means for self-definition and a weapon for feminist appropriation” (Rowe 3). Viewed through this lens, there is nothing June could have done to undermine Commander Waterford more, and they both know it.
e final image of Season Two is chilling. Having just handed her daughter to Emily, another handmaid who is being smuggled into Canada in the back of a truck that is supposed to be taking June as well, June stands alone in the red-tinged darkness of an empty Boston tunnel. Rather than escaping with her infant daughter, June chooses to stay and make a stand in order to rescue her older daughter, Hannah. June pulls up her deep red hood and the light transforms her face from that of a non-threatening young woman to a sinister figure who appears determined to unleash hell upon Gilead. As the camera draws in closer, the song “Burning Down the House” by e Talking Heads begins to play, and the lyrics offer a preview of what is in store for Gilead’s oppressive regime in Season ree of e Handmaid’s Tale: “Watch out you might get what you’re aſter/Boom babies strange but not a stranger/I’m an ordinary guy/Burning down the house/Hold tight wait till the party’s over/Hold tight we’re in for nasty weather/ere has got to be a way/Burning down the house/Here’s your ticket pack your bag/Time for jumpin’ overboard… Fightin’ fire with fire” (Talking Heads). Having successfully smuggled Commander Waterford’s only child out of Gilead and made his wife Serena Joy an accomplice in the process, June has won major battles in her fight against the regime, and as the credits roll